


heavy is the head

by silver-sparks (Madame_Marauder)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, I suppose, eret redemption arc, nov 16th spoilers, overthinking flower crowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:53:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Marauder/pseuds/silver-sparks
Summary: here is a phrase that men know and monarchs learn; heavy is the head that wears the crown. it is a phrase that is true in more ways than one.(nov 16th spoilers!)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 119





	heavy is the head

_heavy is the head that wears the crown._

it's true. it had surprised him how true it was, in the most literal sense, because he has never seen a monarch who let their head be bowed. any other monarch, that is. the shining gold and glinting jewels take getting used to- the weight of the metal and stones atop his head, the effort needed to keep his chin up. the crown itself is physically, tangibly heavy. it has heft and pressure that extends beyond the symbolism.

after the first few weeks, he isn't sure whether his neck and shoulders ache from the stress, the lingering tension, or the crown itself. he doesn't particularly care to find out.

_heavy is the head that wears the crown._

eret learns how to walk beneath its weight. he learns to walk beneath the weight of quite a lot of things; he learns how to keep his head high beneath the weight of the crown, how to keep his shoulders steady beneath the weight of a velvet mantle, how to keep his spine straight beneath the weight of whispers of _traitor, traitor, traitor._ he learns to take his admittedly limited power and wield it as confidently as he would a blade.

he shelters runaways, hides spies, turns a blind eye to stolen or smuggled supplies. he marks out boundaries and lines and places of protection for certain outcasts and exiles. he does what he can, when he realizes how badly his help is needed.

there had been a comment when he had first appeared in his crown and cloak. there had been many comments, of course, but one had stood out. he had been at the championships, watching tubbo race to victory, standing beside an old sailor who would never quite admit to being an older legend. he had sighed, said something he's already forgotten, and yet the other man had turned to him with an odd variation of the adage he already knew. _"heavy is the heart that holds the crown,"_ the captain had said, had _warned_ , and then tubbo had run to them with his medal in hand and the thread of conversation had been lost.

he was right, eret decides, as dream threatens him from below his throne. the captain was right. he doesn't think his heart has ever been heavier.

_heavy is the head that wears the crown._

but though the crown carries weight, there are other things that carry more. things that once were. things that may once again be. things he traded for a crown. things he hopes, desperately, that he can trade the crown for one last time. 

for the first time, he lifts the crown from his head, and turns it slowly in his hands. the gems and gold glint in the dim light of his empty castle. his own heartbeat seems to echo in the hollow halls. he has everything, here, but there is nothing here for him. the walls are of stone and the floors of wood. there is nothing here that he cannot replace. 

dream doesn't need him, but he doesn't need dream.

decision made, he settles the crown back on his head. it's scant moments before the throne room is stormed and his crown and title are demanded from him. all four of them are armed and armored, and even he doesn't stand all that much of a chance.

for a brief moment, he fantasizes of taking the metal and hurling it at dream's feet, of shouting defiance and freedom until the castle rings with the sound of his voice, of living up to the folded blue coat tucked in a box beneath his bed.

_heavy is the head that wears the crown._

he goes quietly instead, plucks the crown out of his curls and drops it into george's hands. the other man fumbles to catch it, not expecting the weight of it. eret smirks. "it's heavy," he says, and tilts his head mockingly. "i hope you have the spine to carry it."

"get him out," dream growls, and eret doesn't resist as he's dragged away. he just watches george swallow nervously as he gazes down at the crown in his hands. the guards think it's funny to toss him in the moat. eret thinks it's funny that they think it's anything but an advantage.

the king knows his castle, every hollow wall and every cut corner, each hidden passage and secret chest. a traitor plans to be betrayed, after all. he sits and waits for them to leave, and steps through his tunnels and out a secret door, and then he robs the false king blind. he takes back his valuable supplies and stows them in an ender chest, takes the useful ones and hides them in the walls. he takes all but one of his beacons, and by the time they notice that the sky has gone dark, he's safely gone. 

well, he's gone, at least.

he's gone, and alone, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. all he can do is fling himself on the mercy of those he's supposed to be helping, and hope that they deign to trust him. and they do. on the word of sweet niki and kind tubbo, they do. tommy and quackity tolerate him, wilbur and techno allow him in warily. it all goes right. 

and then it all goes wrong.

_heavy is the head that wears the crown._

everybody told him that. nobody told him how much heavier it would feel when the crown was gone.

tubbo has no circlet of precious metal, but he sits on the edge of the crater with his head bowed and shoulders slumped beneath the weight of leadership. eret sits nearby, staring at the sky, pretending he's spending the night here because of the other's presence and not because he has nowhere to go.

the boy-president weaves together poppies and cornflowers and daisies into a simple chain. they had been plucked from the wreckage of the flower shop, a few stubborn blooms that had lingered at the edge of the smoking crater.

"eret," tubbo says, finishing his flower crown. "do you think you were right, down in the control room?"

eret inhales slowly, exhales slower. "what do you mean?"

tubbo doesn't look at him. "do you think that l'manburg really wasn't meant to be? because phil- phil told me, he told me that when wilbur pressed the button to light the tnt, he said it was true. wilbur didn't think it was meant to be, either."

"oh," eret replies, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts into something more coherent. "i think that i saw an opportunity and i took it. i think that i disagreed with wilbur's leadership, and i think that by all indications at the time, l'manburg was going to lose and lose horribly. i don't know if it was meant to be or not, but i know that either way, it _was._ it existed. it can exist in another way, now."

tubbo sighs, nodding. "i hope so. i hope it can. i really hope it can."

the exiled king and the boy-president sit in silence for a moment, and then tubbo tucks the last stem into his work and reaches up and drops the wreath of flowers onto eret's head. it's so light, he wouldn't have noticed it if not for the pale while petals that brush against his glasses.

"maybe we can exist in a new way, too," tubbo says. "if you're serious about staying with us. i know pogtopia splintered a bit- a lot, really, we splintered a lot- but you are a fantastic architect. l'manburg needs those right about now."

eret smiles, something in his chest feeling impossibly fragile and light. "i'd be honored to," he agrees, and as the dawn breaks they begin to discuss plans to rebuild. tubbo gestures with his hands, and eret sketches in the dirt, and together they devise a system of platforms and rope bridges and monuments. the sunset had been like streaks of blood in the sky, because that's what endings are, and the sunrise burns like tongues of flame, because light and heat come hand in hand. everything has a cost, and the cost has been paid in bloodshed and fire. 

but the smoke has cleared and the day is new, and eret is working to stop the flood from the ponds. he stands knee-deep in soot-choked water, deeply glad that his boots are both waterproof and taller than the floodwaters. he hauls buckets of water with tommy and patches temporary dams alongside fundy. niki calls them to break for lunch, and he climbs up to the crater's ledge to stand beside tubbo and look out over the devastated land. he stands there with his cloak discarded and his sleeves rolled up and a crown made of flowers and stems instead of metal and gems, the laughter and chatter of l'manburg once more ringing around him, and he tilts his face up towards the sun.

he catches sight of dream standing atop the hill, accompanied by a newly-crowned king who doesn't know how to hold his head beneath the weight, and he just grins. george will learn soon enough, or maybe he won't.

_heavy is the head that wears the crown._

but eret has never felt lighter.


End file.
